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It was something which moved with the wind like a wounded bird, fluttering from the roadside to a puddle and then back to the rushes. She advanced to it, missed it, and caught it. It was an old dingy green felt hat, and she recognized it as Dickson's. Mrs. Morran's brain, after a second of confusion, worked fast and clearly.
"I left early and took it easy along the shore." "Did ye so? Well, good-sight to ye." Five minutes later Dickson walked into Mrs. Morran's kitchen, where Heritage was busy making up for a day of short provender. "I'm for Glasgow to-morrow, Auntie Phemie," he cried. "I want you to loan me a wee trunk with a key, and steek the door and windows, for I've a lot to tell you."
It's standin' cauld and lanely and steikit, and it aince the cheeriest dwallin' in a' Carrick." Mrs. Morran's tone grew tragic. "It's a queer warld wi'out the auld gentry. My faither and my guidsire and his faither afore him served the Kennedys, and my man Dauvit Morran was gemkeeper to them, and afore I mairried I was ane o' the table-maids.
The soul of Dickson hungered at the moment for human companionship. He felt that his courage would be sufficient for any team-work, but might waver again if he were left to play a lone hand. He lunched nobly off three plates of Mrs. Morran's kail an early lunch, for that lady, having breakfasted at five, partook of the midday meal about eleven.
"If I am to have peace, by some way or other the fangs of my enemies must be drawn for ever." He swung round and addressed her formally. "Mem, I'm askin' ye for the last time. Will ye keep out of this business? Will ye gang back and sit doun aside Mrs. Morran's fire and have your teas and wait till we come for ye. Ye can do no good, and ye're puttin' yourself terrible in the enemy's power.
Morran's kitchen before a meal which fulfilled their wildest dreams. She had been baking that morning, so there were white scones and barley scones, and oaten farles, and russet pancakes. "Try hinny and aitcake," said their hostess. "My man used to say he never fund onything as guid in a' his days." Presently they heard her story. Her name was Morran, and she had been a widow these ten years.
She found herself in a morass of misery and shabby discomfort, but had her days continued in an even tenor she would still have lamented. "A dingy body," was Mrs. Morran's comment, but she laboured in kindness. Unhappily they had no common language, and it was only by signs that the hostess could discover her wants and show her goodwill.
As for the watchers, they must have ceased to suspect him, when they discovered the innocent contents of his knapsack and Mrs. Morran's box. Home for him, and a luxurious tea by his own fireside; and then an evening with his books, for Heritage's nonsense had stimulated his literary fervour. He would dip into his old favourites again to confirm his faith.
Now the House on the south side the Garple side is built fairly close to the edge of the cliffs. Is that all clear in your head? We can't reconnoitre unless we've got a working notion of the lie of the land." Dickson was about to protest that he had no intention of reconnoitring, when a hubbub arose in the back kitchen. Mrs. Morran's voice was heard in shrill protest. "Ye ill laddie!
Thomas Yownie was not in the hen-house, but in Mrs. Morran's kitchen, and with him were the pug-faced boy know as Old Bill, and the sturdy figure of Peter Paterson. But the floor was held by the hostess. She still wore her big boots, her petticoats were still kilted, and round her venerable head in lieu of a bonnet was drawn a tartan shawl. "Eh, Dickson, but I'm blithe to see ye.
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